reminiscences of tolstoy-第9部分

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〃I'll　give　you　a　gun；〃　he　said。　　〃I've　got　two　in　Paris；　and　I　have　no　earthly　need　for　both。　　It's　not　an　expensive　gun；　but　it's　a　good　one。　　Next　time　I　come　to　Russia　I'll　bring　it　with　me。〃

I　was　quite　taken　aback　and　thanked　him　heartily。　　I　was　tremendously　delighted　at　the　idea　that　I　was　to　have　a　real　central…fire　gun。

Unfortunately；　Turgenieff　never　came　to　Russia　again。　I　tried　afterward　to　buy　the　gun　he　had　spoken　of　from　his　legatees　not　in　the　quality　of　a　central…fire　gun；　but　as　Turgenieff's　gun；　but　I　did　not　succeed。

That　is　all　that　I　can　remember　about　this　delightful；　naively　cordial　man；　with　the　childlike　eyes　and　the　childlike　laugh；　and　in　the　picture　my　mind　preserves　of　him　the　memory　of　his　grandeur　melts　into　the　charm　of　his　good　nature　and　simplicity。

In　1883　my　father　received　from　Ivan　Sergeyevitch　his　last　farewell　letter；　written　in　pencil　on　his　death…bed；　and　I　remember　with　what　emotion　he　read　it。　　And　when　the　news　of　his　death　came；　my　father　would　talk　of　nothing　else　for　several　days；　and　inquired　everywhere　for　details　of　his　illness　and　last　days。

Apropos　of　this　letter　of　Turgenieff's；　I　should　like　to　say　that　my　father　was　sincerely　annoyed；　when　he　heard　applied　to　himself　the　epithet　〃great　writer　of　the　land　of　Russia；〃　which　was　taken　from　this　letter。

He　always　hated　cliches；　and　he　regarded　this　one　as　quite　absurd。

〃Why　not　'writer　of　the　land'？　　I　never　heard　before　that　a　man　could　be　the　writer　of　a　land。　　People　get　attached　to　some　nonsensical　expression；　and　go　on　repeating　it　in　season　and　out　of　season。〃

I　have　given　extracts　above　from　Turgenieff's　letters；　which　show　the　invariable　consistency　with　which　he　lauded　my　father's　literary　talents。　　Unfortunately；　I　cannot　say　the　same　of　my　father's　attitude　toward　Turgenieff。

In　this；　too；　the　want　of　dispassionateness　in　his　nature　revealed　itself。　　Personal　relations　prevented　him　from　being　objective。

In　1867；　apropos　of　Turgenieff's　〃Smoke；〃　which　had　just　appeared；　he　wrote　to　Fet：


There　is　hardly　any　love　of　anything　in　〃Smoke〃　and　hardly　any　poetry。　　The　only　thing　it　shows　love　for　is　light　and　playful　adultery；　and　for　that　reason　the　poetry　of　the　story　is　repulsive。　。　。　。　　I　am　timid　in　expressing　this　opinion；　because　I　cannot　form　a　sober　judgment　about　an　author　whose　personality　I　dislike。

In　1865；　before　the　final　breach　with　Turgenieff；　he　wrote；　again　to　Fet：　〃I　do　not　like　'Enough'！　　A　personal　subjective　treatment　is　never　good　unless　it　is　full　of　life　and　passion；　but　the　subjectivity　in　this　case　is　full　of　lifeless　suffering。

In　the　autumn　of　1883；　after　Turgenieff's　death；　when　the　family　had　gone　into　Moscow　for　the　winter；　my　father　stayed　at　Yasnaya　Polyana　alone；　with　Agafya　Mikhailovna；　and　set　earnestly　about　reading　through　all　Turgenieff's　works。

This　is　what　he　wrote　to　my　mother　at　the　time：


I　am　always　thinking　about　Turgenieff。　　I　am　intensely　fond　of　him；　and　sorry　for　him；　and　do　nothing　but　read　him。　　I　live　entirely　with　him。　　I　shall　certainly　give　a　lecture　on　him；　or　write　it　to　be　read；　tell　Yuryef。

〃Enough〃read　it；　it　is　perfectly　charming。


Unfortunately；　my　father's　intended　lecture　on　Turgenieff　never　came　off。　　The　Government　forbade　him　to　pay　this　last　tribute　to　his　dead　friend；　with　whom　he　had　quarreled　all　his　life　only　because　he　could　not　be　indifferent　to　him。


　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　（To　be　continued）





　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　REMINISCENCES　OF　TOLSTOY


　　　　　　　　　BY　HIS　SON；　COUNT　ILYa　TOLSTOY


　　　　　　　　　　　　　TRANSLATED　BY　GEORGE　CALDERON

AT　this　point　I　shall　turn　back　and　try　to　trace　the　influence　which　my　father　had　on　my　upbringing；　and　I　shall　recall　as　well　as　I　can　the　impressions　that　he　left　on　my　mind　in　my　childhood；　and　later　in　the　melancholy　days　of　my　early　manhood；　which　happened　to　coincide　with　the　radical　change　in　his　whole　philosophy　of　life。

In　1852；　tired　of　life　in　the　Caucasus　and　remembering　his　old　home　at　Yasnaya　Polyana；　he　wrote　to　his　aunt；　Tatyana　Alexandrovna：

After　some　years；　I　shall　find　myself；　neither　very　young　nor　very　old；　back　at　Yasnaya　Polyana　again：　my　affairs　will　all　be　in　order；　I　shall　have　no　anxieties　for　the　future　and　no　troubles　in　the　present。

You　also　will　be　living　at　Yasnaya。　　You　will　be　getting　a　little　old；　but　you　will　be　healthy　and　vigorous。　　We　shall　lead　the　life　we　led　in　the　old　days；　I　shall　work　in　the　mornings；　but　we　shall　meet　and　see　each　other　almost　all　day。

We　shall　dine　together　in　the　evening。　　I　shall　read　you　something　that　interests　you。　　Then　we　shall　talk：　I　shall　tell　you　about　my　life　in　the　Caucasus；　you　will　give　me　reminiscences　of　my　father　and　mother；　you　will　tell　me　some　of　those　〃terrible　stories〃　to　which　we　used　to　listen　in　the　old　days　with　frightened　eyes　and　open　mouths。

We　shall　talk　about　the　people　that　we　loved　and　who　are　no　more。

You　will　cry；　and　I；　too；　but　our　tears　will　be　refreshing；　tranquilizing　tears。　　We　shall　talk　about　my　brothers；　who　will　visit　us　from　time　to　time；　and　about　dear　Masha；　who　will　also　spend　several　months　every　year　at　Yasnaya；　which　she　loves；　with　all　her　children。

We　shall　have　no　acquaintances；　no　one　will　come　in　to　bore　us　with　gossip。

It　is　a　wonderful　dream；　but　that　is　not　all　that　I　let　myself　dream　of。

　I　shall　be　married。　　My　wife　will　be　gentle；　kind；　and　affectionate；　she　will　love　you　as　I　do；　we　shall　have　children　who　will　call　you　granny；　you　will　live　in　the　big　house；　in　the　same　room　on　the　top　floor　where　my　grandmother　lived　before。

The　whole　house　will　be　run　on　the　same　lines　as　it　was　in　my

father's　time；　and　we　shall　begin　the　same　life　over　again；　but　with　a　change　of　roles。


You　will　take　my　grandmother's　place；　but　you　will　be　better　still　than　she　was；　I　shall　take　my　father's　place；　though　I　can　never　hope　to　be　worthy　of　the　honor。

My　wife　will　take　my　mother's　place；　and　the　children　ours。

Masha　will　fill　the　part　of　both　my　aunts；　except　for　their　sorrow；　and　there　will　even　be　Gasha　there　to　take　the　place　of　Prashovya　Ilyinitchna。

The　only　thing　lacking　will　be　some　one　to　take　the　part　you　played　in　the　life　of　our　family。　　We　shall　never　find　such　a　noble　and　loving　heart　as　yours。　　There　is　no　one　to　succeed　you。

There　will　be　three　new　faces　that　will　appear　among　us　from　time　to　time：　my　brothers；　especially　one　who　will　often　be　with　us；　Nikolenka；　who　will　be　an　old　bachelor；　bald；　retired；　always　the　same　kindly；　noble　fellow。


Just　ten　years　after　this　letter；　my　father　married；　and　almost　all　his　dreams　were　realized；　just　as　he　had　wished。　　Only　the　big　house；　with　his　grandmother's　room；　was　missing；　and　his　brother　Nikolenka；　with　the　dirty　hands；　for　he　died　two　years　before；　in　1860。　　In　his　family　life　my　father　witnessed　a　repetition　of　the　life　of　his　parents；　and　in　us　children　he　sought　to　find　a　repetition　of　himself　and　his　brothers。　　We　were　brought　up　as　regular　gentlefolk；　proud　of　our　social　position　and　holding　aloof　from　all　the　outer　world。　　Everything　that　was　not　us　was　below　us；　and　therefore　unworthy　of　imitation。　　I　knew　that　my　father　felt　very　earnestly　about　the　chastity　of　young　people；　I　knew　how　much　strength　he　laid　on　purity。　　An　early　marriage　seemed　to　me　the　best　solution　of　the　difficult　question　that　must　harass　every　thoughtful　boy　when　he　attains　to　man's　estate。

Two　or　three　years　later；　when　I　was　eighteen　and　we　were　living　in　Moscow；　I　fell　in　love　with　a　young　lady　I　knew；　my　present　wife；　and　went　almost　every　Saturday　to　her　father's　house。

My　father　knew；　but　said　nothing。　　One　day　when　he　was　going　out　for　a　walk　I　asked　if　I　might　go　with　him。　　As　I　very　seldom　went　for　walks　with　him　in　Moscow；　he　guessed　that　I　wanted　to　have　a　serious　talk　with　him　about　something；　and　after　walking　some　distance　in　silence；　evidently　feeling　that　I　was　shy　about　it　and　did　not　like　to　break　the　ice；　he　suddenly　began：

〃You　seem　to　go　pretty　often　to　the　Fs'。〃

I　said　that　I　was　very　fond　of　the　eldest　daughter。

〃Oh；　do　you　want　to　marry　her？〃

〃Yes。〃

〃Is　she　a　good　girl？　　Well；　mind　you　don't　make　a　mistake；　and　don't　be　false　to　her；〃　he　said　with　a　curious　gentleness　and　thoughtfulness。

I　left　him　at　once　and　ran　back　home；　delighted；　along　the　Arbat。　　I　was　glad　that　I　had　told　him　the　truth；　and　his　affectionate　and　cautious　way　of　taking　it　strengthened　my　affection　both　for　him；　to　whom　I　was　boundlessly　grateful　for　his　cordiality；　and　for　her；　whom　I　loved　still　more　warmly　from　that　moment；　and　to　whom　I　resolved　still　more　fervently　never　to　be　untrue。

My　father's　tactfulness　toward　us　amounted　almost　to　timidity。　There　were　certain　questions　which　he　could　never　bring　himself　to　touch　on　for　fear　of　causing　us　pain。　　I　shall　never　forget　how　once　in　Moscow　I　found　him　sitting　writing　at　the　table　in　my　room　when　I　dashed　in　suddenly　to　change　my　clothes。

My　bed　stood　behind　a　screen；　which　hid　him　from　me。

When　he　heard　my　footsteps　he　said；　without　looking　round：

〃Is　that　you；　Ilya？〃

〃Yes；　it's　I。〃

〃Are　you　alone？　　Shut　the　door。　　There's　no　one　to　hear　us；　and　we　can't　see　each　other；　so　we　shall　not　feel　ashamed。　　Tell　me；　did　you　ever　have　anything　to　do　with　women？〃

When　I　said　no；　I　suddenly　heard　him　break　out　sobbing；　like　a　little　child。

I　sobbed　and　cried；　too；　and　for　a　long　time　we　stayed　weeping　tears　of　joy；　with　the　screen　between　us；　and　we　were　neither　of　us　ashamed；　but　both　so　joyful　that　I　look　on　that　moment　as　one　of　the　happiest　in　my　whole　life。

No　arguments　or　homilies　could　ever　have　effected　what　the　emotion　I　experienced　at　that　moment　did。　　Such　tears　as　those　shed　by　a　father　of　sixty　can　never　be　forgotten　even　in　moments　of　the　strongest　temptation。

My　father　observed　my　inward　life　most　attentively　between　the　ages　of　sixteen　and　twenty；　noted　all　my　doubts　and　hesitations；　encouraged　me　in　my　good　impulses；　and　often　found　fault　with　me　for　inconsistency。

I　still　have　some　of　his　letters　written　at　that　time。　　Here　are　two：


I　had　just　written　you；　my　dear　friend　Ilya；　a　letter　that　was　true　to　my　own　feelings；　but；　I　am　afraid；　unjust；